THE GOLDFISH
The goldfish is all lonely in his tank.
He peers through glass all day long.
When feeding time come he's there right away.
He gobbles and munches till he's finished,
But when he's finished
He's lonely again.
D. Rafferty, P6A.

OLD MAN
His head was small for his body, yet he strained to keep it up. He peered out through eyes sunk deep in their sockets. His pale white cheeks were stretched taut over his face and every movement of his cheek bones could be seen as he chewed away at nothing. His mouth was small and he had thin severely discoloured and cracked lips. He had no teeth and his pale pink gums glistened with saliva. He was a small man and his hands looked a size too big for him. He sat crouched forward with his hands in his lap, fidgeting ceaselessly.T. Gemmill, IIIA.

For sale : One temple - no roof.
The builders have gone.
The gods have gone too.
They went with the roof.
D. Barnes, V.

Astronaut out in space.
Trapped in a square of nothingness.
Only link with reality
A lifeline,
Made of gold !
C. Langton, V.

THE COLDEST MORNING OF THE YEAR
The sky was velvet and the moon and one star were shining cold. There were no clouds of cotton wool to lie under and keep warm. The yellow light from the classrooms reflected on the cold mirrors lying on the square.
I could hear cars rumbling in the distance breaking the morning silence. Sound was sharp. There was a cold wind blowing from the east. The trees seemed to move to keep warm.
My fingers started to throb so I put them in my pockets to find heat.
Heat, a form of energy, life.
J. Irving, IIIB.

RAIN
Falling silver drops
Run down naked branches
Onto the earth below.
T. Armstrong, IIIB.

GALE
The sea of air crashes upon my house
It pours through any crack or opening.
It washes up leaves on my doorstep.
The waves break against my windows
I can only hope the sea grows calm.
J. Irving, IIIB.

THAW
Drip, the trees undress,
The sledge sticks, Mud is bared.
The thaw has started.
T. Gemmill, IIIA.

BUTCHER'S
Bones crunching, meat ripping
Thud of cleavers
The busy grate of hacksaws
Paper rustling
Screech of hooks sliding
A cheerful "Yes, sir?"
Among the dead meat.
T. Gemmill, IIIA.

Start
Trickle
Not lying
Now much faster
A sleet of mothballs
Decreasing blows
Now it slows
Patter
Stop.
M. Ferrigan, IIIA.

Cool crisp air assists my wakening
I return from a most uncomfortable night
I am calmed by the serene silence of the shelling
In the midst of ruin I can see light.
J. Stewart, IIIA.